


Suns and Meteorites

by orphean



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Enterprise
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-25
Updated: 2018-07-25
Packaged: 2019-06-15 21:56:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,382
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15422454
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphean/pseuds/orphean
Summary: ‘The captain was right, wasn’t he? The two of us fighting. It’s no good. Not for my men. Not for yours. We’re putting Earth in jeopardy.’ The major’s palms were pressed against Malcolm’s desk, his fingers wrapped around the table edge. He drummed his fingertips against the wood, a staccato rhythm. He licked his lips. ‘There’s another way, you know.’–––Malcolm, recovering from his failed relationship with Trip, finds himself involved with Major Hayes. He tells himself there are no feelings involved.Spoilers for Harbinger (3.15) and Hatchery (3.17).





	Suns and Meteorites

Malcolm hadn’t expected to see Hayes at his door. It had been a day since their fight and they had agreed to put aside their dislike for one another for the sake of the ship. Hayes’ face was still bruised, a green tinge over his eye, his cheek a blossoming blue. Malcolm knew he didn’t look any better.

‘Sir,’ Hayes said by way of greeting when the door opened. Malcolm had expected – he didn’t know what he had expected. Archer, wanting to watch some stupid game? T’Pol, asking him to fill another shift? Trip, begging for forgiveness? Whatever it was, it wasn’t the MACO Major at his quarters, well past the end of both their shifts. Without knowing why, he stepped aside and let Hayes enter.

Malcolm’s quarters were not small, but Hayes was the first person to visit them. Except Trip – but Trip didn’t count. He’d made sure of that. The major glanced around the room, practised eyes taking in the vulnerabilities in security. Malcolm had spotted them his first night in them, years ago: the air vent placed right above the bed; the desk not quite attached to the wall; the bookcase at such an angle that it was almost impossible not to walk into it. The door whirred shut behind him. Malcolm waited for him to speak. He didn’t.

Hayes perched against the desk, carefully moving Malcolm’s old novels out of the way. His hands were ungloved for once, his arms bare. He wore the same type of shirt that Malcolm had seen him in several times before. Standard issue, probably. His trousers were the MACO grey khaki. Did he even own civilian clothes?

‘Your bruises seem to be healing well,’ Hayes said, not looking at Malcolm, one of Malcolm’s paperbacks in his hands. He turned it over. ‘I wouldn’t have pegged you for a Bond fan.’

‘Only the books,’ Malcolm replied.

‘You’re a snob,’ Hayes said without malice. He put the book aside and cocked his head, again studying Malcolm. ‘Thank you for letting me in.’

Malcolm shrugged.

‘Your bruises don’t look too bad either,’ he said, deciding to reply to his earlier comment and look past the insult.

‘I never look bad.’

Malcolm considered saying something about American arrogance, that he had never met a handsome American who _hadn’t_ said that at one point or another. But no. He shouldn’t do that. Hayes was not handsome, he reminded himself. Malcolm crossed his arms as he waited for Hayes to continue saying whatever he wanted to say.

‘Why are you here?’ Too much time had passed. It was maybe a minute, maybe thirty seconds – however long it was, it was too long. Malcolm inhaled and realised he had forgotten to breathe.

‘The captain was right, wasn’t he? The two of us fighting. It’s no good. Not for my men. Not for yours. We’re putting Earth in jeopardy.’ The major’s palms were pressed against Malcolm’s desk, his fingers wrapped around the table edge. He drummed his fingertips against the wood, a staccato rhythm. He licked his lips. ‘There’s another way, you know.’

‘What?’ Malcolm didn’t know if he said the word out loud or if he had just exhaled. Surely Hayes was not suggesting –

‘Come on, sir.’ His hands were in his pockets now, his head cocked. He might have been talking about the weather, and not an inappropriate suggestion. ‘You know what I’m talking about. We could do this. No one would get hurt.’ Hayes paused, and Malcolm thought his eyes twinkled. He added: ‘Unless you’d like to be, of course.’

‘Major.’ He had meant it as a warning, not a whisper. He had faced Xindi and he had faced an almost certain death, and he had never been as uncertain as he was now.

‘Or maybe you don’t approve of fraternisation.’ Hayes stood, reaching his full height, only inches away from Malcolm, towering over him. ‘But tell me, sir. Would you like me to leave?’

The silence stretched between them like barbed wire, every moment raising the stakes. Malcolm could hear his heart beating, fast and furious, unsure if it was fight or flight. He could smell Hayes, standard-issue soap mingled with sweat. He felt his breath against his face, too hot and too cold. This was a bad idea.

‘You can stay.’ Malcolm said.

 

* * *

 

‘Malcolm, a word.’ The senior staff meeting had finished, and Archer caught him before he could squirrel off to his workshop to work on updating the plasma array. Malcolm turned back to the captain, aware that behind him, Major Hayes walked with T’Pol, attentively listening to her.

‘Yes, Captain?’

‘Major Hayes and you – did you work everything out?’ Archer’s voice was serious, his eyebrows furrowed.

‘Yes, sir. We worked it out.’ And they had, with Hayes’ hands on him and their bodies entwined, passion and no tenderness. ‘There will be nothing further.’

He hadn’t kiss him, not even once. Hayes had followed his own training advice, keeping their eyes locked, only looking away when he slicked his fingers. He had spoken in the low calm voice that didn’t seem to shift, his voice level even when Malcolm could feel him shiver. He fucked like he fought, with finesse and power, a little rougher than strictly necessarily. He was nothing like Trip, who had kissed and kissed, murmuring sweet words as he took his time. (Trip, who had ended it.) Hayes didn’t take his time. Efficient, as always.

‘Are you sure?’ Archer put a hand on Malcolm’s shoulder, giving a quick, reassuring squeeze. ‘I can’t have you fighting.’

Afterwards, Hayes had run a hand through his hair, sweat beading at his temple, and he had grinned. _Will that do, sir?_ he had asked as he found his clothes and began to dress himself. He embarrassed Malcolm with the easy way he showed his nakedness, without shame or concern.

‘There’ll be no more fighting,’ Malcolm promised.

 _What’s your name?_ Malcolm had asked. Hayes had chuckled. _None of your business, Lieutenant._

‘Very good.’ Archer’s hand left his shoulder. ‘We can’t fail this mission.’

Hayes had saluted before he left, a disingenuous show of respect. Malcolm hadn’t showered that night, slowly drifting off to sleep, distracted by Hayes and the dangers they had yet to fight. He had felt dirty to the bone when he woke in the morning.

‘We won’t. Thank you, captain.’

 

* * *

 

The first time Malcolm had met Hayes, he had already decided not to like him. It was a week after Trip had ended their maybe-a-relationship – he had bowed his head and apologised, and he had said he couldn’t do this, he couldn’t be with someone, anyone, not _now_ , not when this had happened to Earth, with seven million people dead, with his _sister_ gone. He had cried, and when Malcolm had reached out he had backed away, apologising while drying his tears on his overalls. Malcolm wasn’t surprised that it ended, not really. He had always known that Trip was too good for him. He was ashamed that he still transfixed by him: by the way the half-light of Engineering crowned him in twilight; by how his face split open in a grin when the captain told a joke; by the memory of the nights Malcolm would never have with him again.

He didn’t care for Hayes and his arrogance, the way he carried himself and how he had the face of a politician, unreadable and unreliable. The day they had been introduced in the shuttlebay, Hayes looked down on Malcolm – and he thought he did not only do it literally – and assessed him. His eyes swirled blue and green and the corner of his mouth twitched, and Malcolm couldn’t tell if the movement was betraying amusement or scorn. Perhaps it had been both.

And yet, Hayes was _there_. And, at least once, he had wanted Malcolm.

Malcolm didn’t know what Hayes wanted now, and he didn’t know how he would find out, because talking was not what he wanted. Not that he knew what he wanted. Part of him hoped their time in Malcolm’s bed to be a one-time thing; another part yearned for it to happen again. He was both disappointed and relieved when Hayes stood next to him during training that evening and acted as he had before. The major crossed his arms over his chest as he watched the Starfleet officers fight against his own crew, eyes fixed on their combinations and positions. Malcolm found himself drawn to Hayes face, the way he parted his lips and bit his tongue, focused on his work.

‘Tip-top condition, sir,’ he said in response to a successful left hook from Trip against a young male MACO. ‘Lower that response, ma’am.’ Hoshi struggled against corporal Cole, her ripostes to the MACO’s blows not quite quick enough. ‘Continue like that, and you’ll end up like me, Hawkins.’ Hawkins had failed a counter strike against Travis, backing up as the helmsman landed blow after blow. ‘Nice one, ensign.’

After the session, Hayes peeled off his gloves and for a moment, Reed wondered if they were heading for another fight. Hayes leaned down, a hand over his bruised kidney, and he began to roll up the training mats they had used. Malcolm moved to the other side of the room, clearing the mats from opposite corner.

‘How’s your eye?’

Malcolm hadn’t expected the question. He hadn’t thought he would care enough to ask. He hadn’t thought that they would talk.

‘Fine, fine. How’s your kidney?’

‘Hurts like a bitch, but I’ll be alright.’ For a moment, Malcolm was surprised to hear him swear, but then he remembered he had sworn the previous night, breathless _fucks_ that sounded like they’d been living in the back of his throat for years, waiting for Malcolm to summon them. Malcolm allowed himself a glance at him. There was a floater in his eye, casing Hayes’ head like a dark halo. He blinked and it was gone. ‘When did the Doctor say you could go back on regular duty?’

‘Day after tomorrow. He’s more worried about my ribs than the eye. I’ve got another session with him this afternoon.’ Phlox has merrily told him that he had some slugs that could fix him up in a jiffy – _perfectly painless, I swear, Lieutenant –_ or they could go for a non-surgical option, which would take a few more days and a couple of more visits to Sickbay. Malcolm declined the slugs. He had never liked the slimy little buggers.

Hayes nodded, putting away the last of the mats on his side of the room. He sat down on the ground, legs crossed, and began to disassemble his gun. Malcolm was surprised to see him sit like that. He couldn’t remember the last time he had trusted his body enough to even attempt to sit cross-legged, and Hayes must be older than him. Then again, leading a military crew required peak physical condition, even better than a Starfleet security officer. He remembered Hayes’ muscles under his fingers, during the fight and in his bed. He swallowed and began carrying the mats to their storage area. Hayes was quiet, so Malcolm assumed this brief respite of polite chit-chat was over.

‘He’s a strange man, your Doctor.’ He said this into the silence that had spread between them. The gun’s disparate parts were neatly placed out in front of him, and he inspected them one by one, holding them up against the light, looking for any imperfection or wayward speck of dirt. When he had determined each part acceptable, he wiped it with a cloth and set it aside.

‘I guess he is. Denobulans are rather different from us. Did you know he has three wives?’

Hayes chuckled softly.

‘Does he now? And I thought that one wife would be too many.’

‘We met one of them, once. Feezal.’ Malcolm didn’t know why he was talking about this, barrelling down this conversation. He should leave. He had work to do. But then again, staying a couple of minutes couldn’t hurt, could it? This could prove to Archer that they weren’t fighting anymore. ‘She spent most of the trip trying to seduce commander Tucker.’

Hayes laughed in earnest, the corners of his eyes crinkling with amusement. Had Malcolm ever seen him laugh? Not like this. He remembered those days with Feezal Phlox on board, how Trip has sagged onto Malcolm’s bed and hid under a pillow. _Why does this keep happening to me, Malcolm?_ He buried his face against Malcolm’s neck, arms wrapped around him as though this embrace would keep him safe from any further embarrassment. Malcolm had been very happy those days.

‘The trouble that man gets into...’ Hayes murmured the words as he finished reassembling his weapon, the smile lingering on his face. He stood and faced Malcolm, his expression grew stern. He almost looked hesitant. ‘May I ask a question, sir? It’s personal.’ Malcolm nodded, wary. ‘Everyone on board says that that you and Commander Tucker are best friends. Thick as thieves. With all due respect, sir – it doesn’t seem that way to me.’

This is the moment Malcolm should be honest. He should tell Hayes about him and Trip, and maybe he would gloss over just how strongly he had felt and still felt for him, but he should really tell him. Considering his latex allergy (and despite of Phlox’s bimonthly medical exams coming out clean every time), it was inconsiderate and, frankly, unsafe not to tell him.

‘His sister’s death–’ this was all Malcolm managed before he broke off, biting his cheek and not looking at Hayes. He should be able to talk about this. Why was it so difficult? What was he embarrassed of – was it Trip, or was it Hayes? Or was it just him and the constant unending mess he made of his life?

Hayes studied him, his gaze firm and considering.

‘Something happened between you and the Commander, sir.’ It wasn’t a question, but Malcolm nodded. Something shifted in the major’s face, but he couldn’t say what. Maybe it was his eyes, maybe the set of his jaw. He looked away.

‘I have a meeting to get to,’ Malcolm lied. Hayes had to know this was a lie, but he gave a curt nod.

I have reports to finish. I’ll wrap things up here.’ Malcolm turned to leave, but as the door opened, Hayes called out for him. ‘Sir. It’s good that we’re not fighting.’

Malcolm left, and the heavy feeling that was stewing in his stomach felt an awful lot like shame.

 

* * *

 

It was neither the time nor the place for a party, but nevertheless, the mess hall had been decorated, canapes had been placed on tables throughout the room, and a deceptively lethal punch had been prepared. Hoshi was at Malcolm’s side, a hand in the crook of this arm, pretty as always. Malcolm felt uncomfortable with the gaiety, unsettled at seeing his comrades-in-arms in nice dresses and collared shirts.

It was four days after the incident with the hatchery. Trip had mentioned in a senior staff meeting the day after Archer had been cleared for duty that the engines had taken a beating and if they could just take one day to take care of some repairs, they would stand a much better chance. Archer had agreed, and it was quickly decided to position _Enterprise_ behind a nearby moon, the geological properties of the moon serving as a natural cloaking field. Hayes suggested that as much of the crew would be unoccupied, this could be a perfect time to run some simulations and battle drills. Malcolm could hear the hesitation in his voice, still embarrassed about siding with the captain when no one else had. _No_ . _Let’s have a party_. Archer was adamant, and when even T’Pol agreed that perhaps a social gathering would relieve some of the stress that had been building since they entered the Expanse, Hayes closed his mouth and backed down.

Malcolm wasn’t surprised that Hayes didn’t like parties. They hadn’t really spoken since their conversation in the training room, their only exchanges brief and professional. He still couldn’t quite square the man that Hayes so clearly seemed to be with the man who had sided with the crazed Archer, and whom he had raised a gun on. He didn’t understand him, and he tried not to think about him. It had only happened once.

‘Malcolm! You made it out.’ Archer approached Malcolm and Hoshi, holding three glasses of punch. His shirt was a garish green, collar popped and the top two buttons undone. He did not look like one would imagine a Starfleet captain. He grinned wide and handed over two of the glasses. Hoshi put aside her empty glass – she had arrived well before Malcolm – and took them both, passing one to Malcolm.

‘You did make it an order, sir.’ Hoshi laughed at his reply and put her arm in Malcolm’s again.

‘No, not an _order_ ! It was more of a – _well_ – suggestion.’ Archer laughed, too, ‘T’Pol volunteered to be on the bridge; Trip has to coordinate the repairs. You barely ever take a break. You deserve some time off, you know. You too, Hoshi.’

‘I could help Commander Tucker with the repairs. I’m a tactical officer, not an engineer, but I can handle the systems. We’d finish faster.’ Archer put a hand up, a visual cue for _stop this right now_.

‘We’ll be fine. After all, there’s –’ Archer broke off as he looked across the room. ‘ _Hm._ If you’ll excuse me. Enjoy the party!’

He strode off, and Malcolm and Hoshi shared a confused look before they saw where Archer had disappeared off to. He was at the north entrance of the mess hall, talking with Hayes. Hayes, he saw, was wearing his uniform, although his weapons were missing. He looked different without them. They were debating something, Archer gesticulating wildly against Hayes’ brief retorts. The din of the party was too loud for Malcolm to make out what was being said. Even before the hatchery incident, he had been walking on eggshells around Hayes. How was he supposed to act around him? What could be counted as normal behaviour when the three touchstones thus far were a bloodied brawl, a fantastic fuck, and an armed stand-off? The two men in the doorway turned, Archer’s hand on Hayes’ shoulder, and left the party.

‘What’s that about?’ Malcolm sipped his punch. He didn’t drink often, always certain that if he did drink, the ship was certain to be attacked. He reminded himself that Archer had _told_ him to enjoy the party, and as parties always made him unsettled, a drink or two would probably help. Hoshi pursed her lips.

‘Probably the uniform. The captain _did_ say civilian clothes.’

‘I’m not sure Major Hayes _owns_ civilian clothes,’ Malcolm said and had another sip. He should stop talking about Hayes.

‘Yeah? How do you know he doesn’t have, like, a wife and five kids back on Earth? Maybe that’s why he’s so driven.’

‘He’s not married.’ Hoshi made a sound, a high-pitched _hm!_ that told him that she demanded more information, _now_ . After almost three years, Malcolm should be used to Hoshi’s relentless quest for gossip. _Not gossip_ , she’d say. _It’s intel_. ‘He mentioned it to me once, that’s all.’

‘O- _kay_ .’ Hoshi led him to the canape table, piling up vol-au-vent in one hand, still arm in arm with Malcolm. ‘But was it in an _I’m just waiting for the right girl or boy-_ not married or the _all I love is guns and punching bad guys_ -kind of not married?’

‘Got a crush, ensign?’ Malcolm heard the tension in his voice. He hoped Hoshi didn’t.

‘ _God_ no!’ Hoshi protested, mouth full of food. She punched Malcolm on the arm. ‘He’s old enough to be my _dad_! I’m just curious. Trying to settle a bet.’

‘Really? With Travis, I assume?’ Hoshi and Travis always brought out each others’ worst side, passing jokes in staff meetings, playing pranks and, yes, placing bets. Malcolm envied their easy friendship. ‘What’s this bet about?’

‘Travis thinks Hayes isn’t human. Maybe he’s an android. Some sort of superhuman robot.’ Hoshi covered her mouth this time, still chewing.

Malcolm remembered the heat of Hayes’ skin, the way he shivered when Malcolm touched him, how his control slipped, just a little, when they fucked. Despite all the evidence to the contrary, he was definitely human.

He heard someone call for Hoshi and an elated cheer rise when she turned at the sound. Travis and a group of crewmen, both Starfleet and MACOs, were waving at her from the other side of the room.

‘We need you to settle a language thing!’ Travis called.

‘A “language thing”,’ Hoshi repeated to Malcolm and rolled her eyes. ‘Look at the respect with which they treat my job. Right, got to go, take care, don’t do anything silly.’

She leaned up and gave him a quick peck on the cheek before she left. She put aside her second empty glass and fished up a third on her way to the table.

Malcolm moved away from the food table – he didn’t think he could eat any of it, so why even be there? – and focused on his punch. He hoped he wasn’t allergic to that, at least. He jumped when he heard a voice address him.

‘Good evening, sir.’ Hayes had appeared next to him, no longer in his uniform, wearing a crisp lavender shirt that didn’t quite seem to fit. The top-most buttons were undone, revealing his throat and the soft spot of his clavicle. He knew it was soft, because he had bit down on it, and Hayes had sighed, soft and needy, fingertips pushing on Malcolm’s head. The sleeves were rolled up, neatly folded. He recognised the shirt, but he couldn’t place it. He had definitely never seen it on Hayes.

‘Good evening. I didn’t know you were coming.’

‘The captain had me change. Apparently the no-uniform policy is actually enforced.’ Hayes flashed a half-smile. His grip on his beer glass was firm, his fingers white from the pressure. He took a sip of the beer and didn’t look at Malcolm.

‘He dragged you to your quarters and didn’t leave until you had changed into civvies? Sounds like captain Archer.’ He wondered if Hayes was as efficient in dressing when he was alone as he had been in Malcolm’s quarters.

‘Oh, no.’ Another swallow of beer. ‘I didn’t bring any civilian gear. This isn’t mine.’

Malcolm looked over Hayes again, hoping Hoshi – really, anyone – wasn’t watching, and he noticed that the trousers and belt were definitely part of the MACO standard uniform, as were the boots. It was only the shirt that was different. Bright and breezy and not at all like Hayes. His face seemed a little red, but Malcolm didn’t know if it was embarrassment or the way the purple played against his face.

‘Whose is it?’

A second passed. Another.

‘Commander Tucker’s.’ Hayes’ voice was tight and he seemed determined not to even _glance_ in Malcolm’s direction. ‘Captain decided I wouldn’t fit in any of his shirts, so he decided that the commander was my best bet. _So_.’ He didn’t sip the beer now, but tipped it down and took a long draught.

Malcolm remembered the shirt now. Trip had worn it on one of the first away missions they had gone on together after their affair had started. It made his complexion shine and Malcolm had worshipped him as he struggled to undo the buttons, Trip kissing his neck, telling him how _nice_ this was.

‘Oh,’ said Malcolm.

The party was growing louder by the minute, but the silence between them was deafening.

‘I wouldn’t be here unless the Captain had requested it,’ Hayes admitted when the silence was stretching thin. ‘I don’t like parties. MACO doesn’t really do them. I wouldn’t have thought you enjoyed them, either.’

‘I don’t,’ Malcolm admitted and finished his punch. ‘I’m going to – would you like me to get you another?’ Hayes’ glass was close to empty. He nodded and Malcolm took it, coming back a minute later with fresh drinks. Their fingers touched, Hayes’ fingers surprisingly soft. Malcolm forced himself to breathe in deep. ‘The key, I’ve discovered, is to find someone you trust and cling onto them like a barnacle, following along with whatever they do. I usually go with Ensign Sato. But you have to find someone sensible. Captain Archer – long debates about early space travel. Ensign Mayweather – usually deteriorates into beer pong.’ And Trip – sneaking off to some disused room and slow, slow kisses up against a wall. Malcolm swallowed.

‘And what does Ensign Sato do at parties?’ Hayes sounded amused and Malcolm could see a twinkle in his eye. Another look, and he saw Hoshi wildly waving her hands, trying to bat away a ping pong ball from hitting any of the cups in front of her. Travis was cheering her on.

‘Speculating, mostly. Hoshi can read people just as well as she could read any language. She has an impressive ability to guess who will go home together.’

‘What would she say here?’ Hayes asked quietly. Malcolm surveyed the room.

‘Seven o’clock,’ he said after a moment, speaking quietly and leaning in so Hayes could hear him over the din. He wondered if his breath was hot against his cheek. ‘Phlox and Corporal Cole. That’d be her bet.’

Hayes let out a chuckle, short and sharp, and tilted his head so their eyes met.

‘No, sir. _Here_.’

Perhaps there had been a hull breach. Perhaps a fissure had cracked open on a higher deck and all at once they were exposed to the cold isolation of space, where there was no sound, no air, nothing but Hayes’ waiting eyes. Malcolm licked his lips, and Hayes’ gaze flicked down, following each of his movements.

‘She’d say that lieutenant Reed’s next shift isn’t until nine hundred hours and he will probably have another drink.’

‘You don’t have to, you know.’ Hayes was looking out at the crowd of people now, Starfleet and MACO personnel intermingled and indistinguishable. ‘If you don’t want me, you don’t have to. I just thought you might feel the same as I do – that’s all.’ He shook his head and downed half of his beer.

It would be so easy to turn this into a fight. How _dare_ he say this when he had at no point ever explained what he felt, and wait a minute, _felt_ ? And Hayes, incensed, would argue that if only Malcolm stopped for a _fucking second_ and paid attention to the way other people acted, he would have understood what was going on. What would Malcolm say? He didn’t know, and he didn’t know who would throw the first punch, and who would be the first to spit blood, and at what point Malcolm would be shoved up against the wall, one hand wrapped around his throat, another searching for his belt buckle.

‘It’s not that easy,’ he said. He felt his heart beating in his throat, incessant and suffocating. He heard Hayes huff. Perhaps he would leave. If Malcolm was lucky, he’d give a half-hearted excuse, apologising and saying he had to leave to say hello to his staff. Or maybe he would say something scathing. Perhaps he would even leave without saying a word. But he stayed where he stood.

‘We might be dead next week. Or if not a week, two weeks. A month. People have already died. So. Yes. Or no. That’s how easy it is.’

Malcolm finished his drink and licked his lips. Hayes was right. It wasn’t as difficult as he made it.

‘I have a bottle of whisky in my quarters. Real whisky. None of that bourbon nonsense. If you’d like a drink.’

‘I wouldn’t mind.’

They left together.

 

* * *

 

In his quarters, Malcolm poured out two glasses of whisky. The alcohol splashed against the glass, loud in the silence between them. He wasn’t sure if he had poured too much or too little in each glass. It had to do. He passed Hayes a glass, hoping he didn’t see his fingers shaking. Their fingers touched, warm against the cold of the drink, and Malcolm managed to suppress his gasp.

He wondered if Hayes was nervous. If that’s why he drank his whisky half-leaning against the bookcase, looking at Malcolm and looking away. He spun the whisky in the glass and watched the legs of the whisky trail the sides. Every movement he did was utterly precise, a perfect military man. The kind of son Malcolm’s parents had wanted. What would they say about this?

‘It’s Jeremiah,’ Hayes said suddenly, breaking the silence. Malcolm blinked.

‘What?’ He hadn’t expected him to speak, and he wasn’t even sure if he’d heard him correctly. Jere-what-now?

‘Jeremiah.’ Hayes repeated. ‘My name. It’s Jeremiah Hayes.’

_Oh._

Malcolm finished his whisky and put out a hand.

‘Malcolm Reed. Pleased to meet you.’

What a tacky, stupid thing to do. But he saw tiny movement in the muscles around Hayes’ lips, surely a smile. He finished his drink without breaking eye contact.

‘Pleased to meet you.’ His hand was dry and warm and Malcolm felt electricity rush through him. Sparks were building where their palms touched. Malcolm swallowed.

It felt like forever, like an eon passed before Hayes moved. (Hayes, not Jeremiah. Jeremiah might be what he was _called_ , but Hayes was his _name._ ) He reached over their handshake – no, hand-holding, really – and placed the empty glass on a shelf. His free hand came to rest on Malcolm’s shoulder, fingers splayed onto his neck. His fingers were cold from the glass. Malcolm was losing his mind.

Then, with a tug that shared more with playground games than with military martial arts, Hayes pulled him close and kissed him.

It took a moment for Malcolm to remember that this was their first kiss. It was fluid and practised, the way Hayes had pulled them together, and their mouths meeting with none of the hesitancy a first kiss usually carried. Like the first time Trip had kissed him – a quick peck and then nothing, heavy eyelashes hiding his bright eyes, a half-formed apology before Malcolm had built enough courage to return the kiss. That kiss had been messy and desperate and too long in the making. This was not that kind of kiss. This was a kiss of precision. Hayes entwined their fingers, now definitely no longer a handshake, and the fingers of his other hand raked through Malcolm’s hair. Malcolm’s free hand came to rest upon his shoulder, clinging on as Hayes manoeuvred him backwards, away from the bookcase, up against the wall. A hazy thought reminded Malcolm that he _had_ anticipated being pinned against a wall.

How long did they stay like that, Hayes breaking down another of Malcolm’s defenses with each new kiss, Malcolm doing his damned best not to whimper against the touch? He couldn’t say. With Hayes’ hands in his hair, his fingers running over his jaw, his throat, his neck, everything felt magnified and yet far away. They were in the emptiness of space and they were the only living thing. Hayes broke the kiss and leaned down, closing his mouth on Malcolm’s jaw, a kiss and then a bite, hard enough for Malcolm to swear and dig his fingers into his neck.

‘Don’t bite,’ he asked, ‘not where it can be seen.’

Hayes pulled his head back, bodies still pressed close. He could feel him, hard and warm and powerful, and he could hear his heart, beating in a somersault. He looked dishevelled, his usually slicked back hair messy and his eyes wild. His hands moved down, untucking Malcolm’s shirt. His hands were warm over his stomach, dipping below his waistband, slow and steady. Maddening. Malcolm impatiently pushed his hips against him, one hand still on Hayes’ shoulder, the other fumbling with the buttons of his shirt. Hayes slapped the hand aside and began tearing at the shirt himself.

‘Be careful, it’s not yours,’ Malcolm reminded. Hayes looked at him, eyes flashing. Was that anger? Jealousy?

‘Shut up, sir.’ Hayes kissed him again, fingers still working on his shirt. Malcolm decided to, for once, follow orders and returned the kiss. Hayes bit his lip and Malcolm returned the gesture as Hayes finally undid the last of his buttons and moved on to Malcolm’s shirt. Malcolm’s hands moved to their trousers and he smiled when Hayes swore against his skin – _jesusfuckingchrist –_ and bit down on his exposed shoulder as he pressed his palm against his front.

‘Bed. Now.’ The order was just an exhale, thick and gruff – and Hayes dragging him along, kicking off his boots and tugging off his trousers, almost tripping over himself. Hayes pushed him onto the bed and Malcolm watched as he attempted to get out of his shirt.

‘Let me,’ he offered, standing up again, running his hand up Hayes’ arm, unrolling the shirt sleeves and letting his fingers graze over his muscles. No wonder he had a hard time getting out of the shirt; compared to him, Trip was a wisp of a man. Malcolm remembered, then, that this wasn’t the first time he’d removed this shirt. Trip had giggled and stolen another kiss for each button undone. He glanced up at Hayes and saw – was that distaste? Hayes swallowed and shrugged out of the shirt.

‘All done?’ His voice was tight. No, not distaste. Definitely jealousy. A part of Malcolm wanted to stop time and analyse this, figure out why Hayes could be struck by moments of envy, but this was not the time. He nodded. Hayes pulled off his undershirt and he glimpsed a flash of silver around his neck, a chain he had not noticed before. ‘Bed. _Sir._ ’

Again, Malcolm toppled onto the bed, Hayes following him this time, trapping him.

‘You don’t have to call me sir,’ Malcolm said. He heard the shiver in his voice, the anticipation and trepidation building to a fever pitch.

‘What if I want to?’ Hayes murmured in his ear, tracing half-kisses half-bites down his throat. Malcolm bit back a moan. Despite his protest, he liked the way Hayes growled the honorific, respectful and respectless all at once. The word told him he was in charge. Everything else showed him he wasn’t. Malcolm nodded in response, acquiescing to his request. If Hayes had no problems taking orders, neither would he. Hayes chuckled against his skin, low and dark and beastly. ‘Very good, sir.’

‘How do you want me?’

Hayes sat up again, looking Malcolm up and down. A man surveying his mission plan. He licked his lips.

‘Hands and knees,’ he said, getting off the bed to give Malcolm space to move into position. He pulled out the bedside drawer, rummaging for what he was looking for. ‘On your hands and knees, sir.’

The world stilled to nothing as Malcolm waited on hands and knees, the only sound both their breaths – his intentionally kept calm (three seconds in, five seconds out), Hayes’ pacing and fast – and the creak of the bed frame when he positioned himself, nudging against Malcolm, sending chills up his body. He felt Hayes’ hand on his back, fingers splayed and pressing down lightly. He felt Hayes lean in close and plant one hesitant kiss on his shoulder blade before speaking.

‘Tell me to stop. If you need me to.’ The one hand stayed on his back. The other was moving up Malcolm’s leg, tracing his ass, fingers slicked with lube. ‘At any time. No matter what you think – I don’t want to hurt you.’ Malcolm nodded and pressed his body backward, searching for the teasing hand. Hayes held him in place. ‘Alright?’ Malcolm murmured something. He didn’t even know what he was saying. Hayes exhaled hard, angry. ‘ _Alright_?’

‘Yes yes, I’ll tell you to stop if you ever even fucking _start_.’ Two could play this game. Hayes laughed and kissed his other shoulder.

‘Don’t think I’ve ever heard you swear,’ he remarked. ‘Looks good on you. Very good, sir.’

Malcolm could feel his heart beating like a hammer. He could feel the coarse sheets under his palms. He could feel the gust of air from the air vent above his bed. He could feel Hayes’s fingers against his skin.

Hayes moved in this, as he did in everything, with military precision. Malcolm had thought this before, the first time they’d fucked, but this felt so much more vivid. That first time – had it really happened or was it just a shared fever dream? This was real. This was happening. Malcolm closed his eyes as he felt the first finger, then the second. He bit his lip. Hayes was precise and slow, but he wasn’t gentle. The pain was welcome. It was a reminder that he was alive in this hellhole of space, alive despite everything that was happening. Perhaps Hayes felt the same, inflicting the pain. When Malcolm bucked into the fingers, he felt the palm on his back press down, an unspoken warning. _Be still._ They didn’t speak, but he heard Hayes’ heavy breathing, in time with his own.

‘Ready?’ The question caught Malcolm by surprise. He felt the hand lift and stroke his back for a moment, a gesture of reassurance.

‘Yes,’ he whispered.

He could feel him shift, their thighs touching now, and his slicked hand resting on his hips. Try as he might, he couldn’t silence his moan when Hayes pushed inside, insistent and hard. It was rough and fast, and Malcolm didn’t know when he had last felt so _alive_ . He clawed at the sheets and bit his lip, but when Hayes paused, his fingers now tender and careful, asking if he was okay, if he should stop, and Malcolm hissed that he was fine but how did Hayes have the _gall_ to stop, please don’t stop, _please please please_.

Hayes, as always, followed orders.

Afterwards, they were a mess of sweat and uncaught breath. Hayes buried his face between Malcolm’s shoulder blades before he disentangled himself.

‘I need to clean off. I’ll be back.’ Malcolm was left alone, half-dizzy from the experience, too tired to move and too excited to sleep.

He listened to the shower and got up when he it turned off and when he passed Hayes on his way to the bathroom, he didn’t even try to touch him. The water ran hot, nearly scalding Malcolm, but he leaned his head against the wall and let it wash over him. With the water came exhaustion, the days and weeks and months of running on too little sleep.

Hayes was lying on the bed, still naked, staring up at the ceiling. If the pile of sheets next to the bed were any indication, he had changed the sheets while Malcolm was in the shower. The top sheet was tightly tucked in under the mattress. Again, he noticed the silver chain around his neck, the metal pendants nestled on his chest.

‘Scooch over – this is my bed.’ Hayes moved closer to the wall, giving Malcolm enough space to lie on his side next to him. Should he touch him? Was an embrace even appropriate? With Trip, it had been inescapable. Trip would catch him in a hug, Malcolm resting his head on his chest, hearing the steady beat of his heart. He couldn’t do that with Hayes. He didn’t know how to act here. Finally, he spoke. ‘Thank you.’

‘For what?’ Hayes cast a sidelong glance at him. Not unkind, but curious. A smile was tugging at his mouth. Malcolm didn’t know why he had said it.

‘Changing the sheets,’ he said.

‘They needed it,’ Hayes replied, moving to also lie on his side. They were face to face now, and Malcolm was struck by how easy it would be to kiss him. It was strange how the idea of kissing him again, languorous and slow, felt more intimate than everything else they had done. He swallowed.

‘Still.’ Malcolm had never really thought about Hayes’ eyes before, intense blue and green and, suddenly, a surprising openness. He reached out and touched the silver chain. ‘What’s this?’

Hayes breathed through his nose and didn’t say anything. Malcolm turned the silver tag between his fingers _._ Hayes’ name, his blood type, date of birth.

‘Identification tags,’ Malcolm murmured, answering his own question. ‘MACO issued?’

‘No,’ Hayes admitted. He reached out and enveloped Malcolm’s hand in his own. The metal was cold in his hand. Hayes’ hand was warm. With his free hand, he touched the inside of his arm. ‘MACO goes for implants. But everyone in my family had their own. I didn’t want to feel left out.’

‘Military family?’ It explained so much. Why had Malcolm never realised this before?

‘Same as you,’ Hayes said. ‘What do you think it’s like – not being like us? Not living with war in your veins?’ Malcolm shook his head. ‘We are alike, aren’t we? Despite everything?’

Perhaps it was foolish, but Malcolm leaned in for a kiss, a kiss that was answered with equal tenderness. Hayes sighed against Malcolm’s mouth. They stayed like that for a long time.

‘You could stay,’ Malcolm said, not daring to look Hayes in the eye. He watched his mouth, admiring the small movements that betrayed a smile. ‘If you’d like.’

‘I wasn’t wearing my uniform. It would be obvious I’d been somewhere.’ Malcolm was surprised that this was Hayes’ excuse. He had expected something snarky, something backhanded that was as much an insult as an explanation. But no. He didn’t say he _didn’t_ want to. He didn’t want to push it, so he kissed him again.

‘It’s late,’ Malcolm said when he broke the kiss. ‘I should sleep.’

Hayes brought a hand to his face, stroking his hair, running his fingers down his cheek.

‘Right you are, sir.’ Malcolm watched Hayes get dressed, leaving the ill-fitting shirt on the floor, opting to only wear his undershirt. Again, he wanted to tell him he could stay the night.

‘My offer’s still open,’ Malcolm mumbled, sleep descending now. He was so tired.

‘I know.’

Perhaps it was a kiss, that pressure on his forehead, that hot breath brushing over his eyebrow. He couldn’t tell. He drifted off to sleep.

He stirred sometime later from the whirr of the door opening and hearing soft steps. He was half-awake and he heard the sound of a zipper, then the sound of clothes carefully placed on the floor. Then, someone lifting the covers and getting in the bed, wrapping an arm around him, warm against Malcolm’s cold skin.

‘Shhh, I didn’t mean to wake you,’ Hayes’ voice was a purr. He felt a kiss at the nape of his neck. ‘Malcolm, go back to sleep.’

Malcolm couldn’t remember the last time he had slept so well.

 

* * *

 

‘So how was the party?’ Trip was stabbing at a potato. It skidded around the plate, refusing to be pierced by the fork. Finally, he grabbed it with his fingers and popped it in his mouth. It was the evening after the party and Trip and Malcolm had just come off shift. Their attempts to keep a friendship despite the fallout were hesitant and sometimes faltering, but they tried. Like a dog fighting for scraps, Malcolm was happy to take what he could.

‘It was fine.’ Malcolm massacred a meatball with a fork and put it to his mouth. ‘Nothing special, really.’

‘No?’ Trip looked tired, dark circles under his eyes and stubble speckling his chin. Still, he was beautiful. He took a sip of juice and pressed his fingers against his eyes. He claimed he was sleeping better. Maybe he was. Maybe it was for Vulcan neuropressure he went to T’Pol’s quarters almost every night. ‘Did you see Major Hayes there?’

‘We didn’t fight, if that’s what you’re asking.’ Malcolm smelled blood. Trip gave him a look.

‘But you _saw_ him?’

‘Yes. We chatted for a bit. Neither of us stayed long.’

‘Anything seem – off with him?’

Malcolm stared at Trip. What was he getting at? What was he suggesting? Then it struck him.

‘Oh, the shirt.’ The shirt that still lay on his floor. When Hayes had crept out of his bed, trying to stay quiet enough for him to stay asleep, Malcolm had promised he’d return it for him. ‘It didn’t really fit.’

‘What d’you mean, didn’t fit?’ Trip chewed a meatball thoughtfully.

‘Well, um. He’s pretty big, isn’t he?’ When he had wrapped him in his arms, Malcolm had never felt so enveloped.

‘Fair.’ Trip was fighting with another potato, this time smashing it with his fork before he stabbed at it. ‘Doubt lilac looks good on him, either. He’s too pink. Couldn’t‘ve got lucky with that.’

‘ _Trip!_ ’

‘What, Malcolm? It’s a party. It’s what happens. Or do you think he just doesn’t love anything as much has he loves his guns?’ Trip winked. Malcolm thought about Hayes’ body on his, his mouth against his, the thrill he had seen in his eyes.

‘You’re incorrigible,’ Malcolm said.

‘Commander. Lieutenant. Mind if I join you?’ There he was, in the flesh. Hayes looked from Trip to Malcolm, pausing for a moment to study Malcolm’s face, before turning back to Trip. Had he heard anything of their conversation? His face was passive and calculating. He lifted a hand in the direction of corporal Cole, who was sitting down at a table further away, joining Phlox. ‘My dinner company left me.’

‘Sure thing, Major,’ Trip smiled a smile that, before the Expanse, Malcolm wouldn’t have doubted for a second. Now there were edges to this smile. Maybe that was what made it even more mesmerising. Malcolm dropped his eyes to his food. Trip moved a pile of PADDs and Hayes sat down between them. ‘We were actually just talking about you.’

Hayes paused with his water halfway to his mouth. He looked at them both.

'Were you, now?’ He wasn’t handsome, not really. Not like Trip was handsome, all gold and movie star looks. Trip was like the sun. Hayes, Hayes was like a meteorite. Impressive, but cold compared to Trip’s heat. Malcolm was cold, too, so maybe this was how it was supposed to be.

‘We were discussing the party.’ Malcolm clarified. ‘I mentioned we talked a bit.’

Hayes raised an eyebrow. _Talked, indeed._

‘How did your repairs come along, sir?’ Hayes asked, cutting up his food in equal sized pieces. Malcolm remembered a story his father had told him, about the American spy in Germany who was discovered because he always cut his food before, rather than as, he ate it. He hadn’t thought of that for years. Did Trip do that, too? He glanced over at his plate. No, he ate like a normal person.

‘Good as new.’ Trip paused, sipping his juice. He made a face. ‘Not really, but best we can do for now. We have to make do with what we’ve got out here. How are you at engineering, major?’

‘Definitely not my forte, sir. I can repair a gun, but most of what you say might as well be Greek as far as I’m concerned.’

Trip laughed. It wasn’t the rich laugh Malcolm had grown to love, the rolling giggle that deepened into peals of laughter. It was emptier. Yet another thing the Expanse had taken from him.

‘Glad you’re not trying to steal my job, Hayes.’ As if on cue, both Hayes and Trip glanced at Malcolm. He didn’t deign it with a response, obstinately chewing on a potato. ‘You know, I don’t think we’ve ever really had a non-work related conversation. Tell me something about yourself. Your file was mostly redacted, so you’re a bit of a mystery. Is it on purpose? Intergalactic man of mystery?’

Hayes took his time answering, focusing on his food. Now that it was all cut up, he had put aside his knife, piercing food with his fork and putting it to his mouth. It wasn’t elegant, but it was efficient.

‘Not on purpose. Most of my missions have been classified. I expect most of this one will be, too. My life’s not that remarkable.’ He paused, searching for an interesting fact about himself. _Last night, commander, I made lieutenant Reed cry out in ecstasy. I hear you have some experience with that, too?_ No, no, he wouldn’t say that. Hayes glanced over at Malcolm, eyes flicking over his face – eyes, cheekbones, mouth. ‘I’ve lived in twenty-two states.’

Trip raised his eyebrows and whistled.

‘That’s not bad.’ He counted his fingers. ‘I’m at, what, five. How did you rack ‘em up?’

‘Army brat. Twelve by the time I joined the corps.’

‘Are you sure you’re not just the American Malcolm Reed?’ Trip gestured at Malcolm. Malcolm felt Hayes’ eyes on him and kept his eyes trained on his plate as he smashed his last remaining meatball against the plate.

‘Doubt it, sir.’ That note in his voice – Malcolm couldn’t tell if it condescension or amusement.

‘How many countries was it you lived in growing up, Malcolm?’

‘Not _me_ , Commander, my parents.’ Suddenly it embarrassed Malcolm that Trip called him by his first name. Hayes didn’t say anything, but if the momentary crease of his eyebrows was a sign, it bothered him too. ‘I think it was – oh, seven? Eight? I was stuck in England. Only visited at Christmas.’

‘You didn’t live with your parents?’ Hayes asked, and he almost sounded upset about it.

‘No.’ Malcolm poked at the remnants of his food. ‘It was fine. We never really got along.’

The silence stretched from accidental to awkward. Trip opened his mouth several times, but seemed unable to decide on what to say. Hayes ate his dinner, occasionally glancing up at him. Finally, Malcolm finally placed his napkin on his plate.

‘I have some reports I need to prepare for tomorrow. I’m sorry to leave in the middle of the conversation. Trip, Major.’

Malcolm didn’t know if he was more embarrassed or frustrated. Why did Trip pry where he wasn’t invited? Why did Hayes decide to have dinner with them tonight of all nights? He had never done it before. Malcolm was back in his quarters, pacing the length of his room. He hung Trip’s shirt on a hanger and put it in a closet. Out of sight, out of mind. But no, not out of mind. Why had Hayes come? Try as he might, Malcolm could only think of one explanation: a desire to make sure that Malcolm kept everything professional with the only other man on the ship that he had slept with. No, that was stupid. It made no sense. Of course not.

He decided to read. He flipped through the pages of his novel to where he had last closed it, weeks before. Halfway through each sentence he lost his place and had to start over. He had managed one page when his door buzzed. Malcolm closed.

‘Come in.’

Hayes. Of course. His MACO jacket was unzipped, revealing the dip of the throat that he once had swung a fist at and once cried into in orgasm. Malcolm saw his chest move as he breathed, and he thought he could see the silver chain beneath the shirt. _How childish_ , the meanest part of him supplied, _trying so hard to be like his dad._ Hayes handed over the PADD he had been holding and stepped inside. The door closed.

‘Duty roster for next week, sir.’ Malcolm hadn’t expected that for another few days and told him so. Hayes had folded his hands behind his back and, although his head was held high, he seemed unwilling to look Malcolm in the eye. ‘I know. I – I wanted to talk to you, alone, and I thought you’d rather I had an excuse. Sir.’

‘Very well.’ Malcolm folded his arms over his chest and waited, focusing his eye on Hayes’ left ear, so he couldn’t be accused of not looking at him. ‘What did you want to talk about?’

‘I shouldn’t have interrupted your dinner with Commander Tucker,’ Hayes said. ‘And I shouldn’t have let him embarrass you. I’m sorry.’

‘I’m fine.’

‘You say that a lot, sir. Is that what you say when you’re _not_ fine?’ Malcolm couldn’t understand how Hayes could keep his voice so cool and collected when he was delivering such blows. Malcolm didn’t respond. What was there to say? A scathing comeback that would lead to blows? A split lip and an urge to smash his mouth – not his fists – against Hayes wouldn’t help either of them. ‘Malcolm.’

Malcolm felt Hayes’ fingers on his chin, tipping his face up so they faced each other.

‘Jeremiah,’ he replied. Hayes’ eyes flickered, sudden emotion flaring up. Malcolm couldn’t tell if it was anger or lust.

‘When I ask a question, I need you to answer me. If you want this to work, you’ll have to answer.’ His voice was so soft, barely a whisper. ‘Do you want to fight?’

‘I don’t want to talk.’ Malcolm closed his eyes, leaned into Hayes’ hand, now resting against his cheek. He was so tired of talking. He was so tired of fighting.

‘We don’t have to.’

Hayes was right. They really didn’t have to.

 

* * *

 

They weren’t stupid about it. Not every night. Only in Malcolm’s quarters, where fewer people passed by. Never Hayes’, whose quarters were sandwiched between  those of a corporal and a private. Hayes rarely spent the night, and if he did, he would leave long before daybreak. Well, what counted as daybreak in the deepest space. They were careful not to leave marks where it could be seen. Arms were off-limit. The Starfleet regulation training uniform meant Malcolm’s shoulders had to be left unbruised as well, to Hayes’ frustration. He seemed to take great pleasure in leaving souvenirs of bite marks and bruises, or maybe he just liked the way Malcolm writhed and whimpered. Doctor Phlox would probably be able to recreate Hayes’ dental records from the blossoming bruises on the inside of Malcolm’s thighs. His sadistic streak seemed to be evenly matched with Malcolm’s masochistic streak. Trip had never indulged that.

Only once did Hayes draw blood. It flowed from Malcolm’s mouth, his lower lip split from the bite. Hayes’ face grew pale and he pulled away, finding tissues and dabbing at the blood. He apologised, over and over, saying he didn’t want to hurt him, he didn’t _really_ want to hurt him. Malcolm spit blood into the tissue and told Hayes to not be such a fucking coward. _It’s just a little blood, Major._ This was part of the fun, wasn’t it? Wasn’t this why Hayes came?

The next morning his lip was blown and aching and he had a hard time vocalising clearly. He decided he needed to go to sickbay.

‘I bit my lip,’ he told Phlox, speaking gingerly as the Doctor was running one of his numerous devices over his lip.

‘ _You_ bit your lip?’ Phlox gave him a look that showed he did not believe it. Malcolm attempted a nod, but the doctor was holding his head in place while working on him. He didn’t push the questioning. ‘Those are impressive gnashers, Lieutenant. All better now. Do be more careful!’

Leaving, Malcolm almost bumped into a MACO private, who smirked at him. This, probably, was where the rumours started.

Maybe it was the sex, or maybe it was because Malcolm no longer felt threatened by Hayes’ position on the ship, but they worked better together. There were mornings when Malcolm joined the military crew on their daybreak run, six miles before breakfast. Hayes barely broke a sweat when Malcolm’s face was drenched. He was never more handsome, stoic and not even exhausted. They would stand next to each other as they watched the training matches, MACOs and Starfleet officers dodging and trading blows. Malcolm liked to watch Hayes, training and punishing in equal parts. The day the major faced off with Trip, Malcolm watched in wonder. Malcolm tried not to think about it, the reason why he was drawn to Hayes like a bug to an open flame. It was desperation, he told himself. No, that wasn’t it. It was his power, he admitted one as he watched Hayes deflect one blow after another, knocking Trip out from under his feet with a single kick. His strong arms; his ability to hold himself in check; his ability to turn pain into pleasure. This power made him different to anyone he had ever been with.

‘Want to give it a go?’ They were watching their respective teams spar, tiptoeing around one another and defensively attacking. Hayes cocked his head and that sardonic smile tugged at his mouth. His arms were crossed and his jacket was open

‘If you insist,’ Malcolm replied.

It wasn’t a fight. No, this was a dance, a precise back-and-forth of blows and deflects. Hayes pushing, Malcolm retreating without yielding. Malcolm landed the first blow, a jab against Hayes’ arm. He winced. Neither noticed when it was the others stopped fighting to watch them. Were they worried they would go too far, that this sparring match would bring more than bruised ribs and damaged eyes? Malcolm barely noticed the stillness around them. Everything was Hayes: his attacks, his movements, his body. It was a lot like fucking.

Hayes was winning. A feint, a dodge, and he had Malcolm pinned, a knee against his throat and hands pinning his wrists. He smiled, satisfied. Malcolm struggled against his grip. He whimpered.

‘That’ll be enough.’ Trip’s voice was cold, his accent drawling. Hayes was on his feet in a moment, Malcolm scrambling to join him. ‘That’ll be all. You’re dismissed.’

Trip kept his eyes fixed on both men as the others filed out of the room. T’Pol moved close to him for a moment, touching his shoulder and asking if he needed anything. Trip shrugged her off. He opened his mouth, twisted with frustration. He exhaled and closed his mouth again.

‘I should report you both to captain Archer,’ Trip said at last, poking Hayes in the chest. Despite the pressure, Hayes did not move, and his expression was didn’t change. Any criticism seemed to wash off him, water and oil. He kept his head high, eyes staring into the distance. ‘You’re lucky I don’t.’

Trip stormed off. Hayes glanced at Malcolm and his smirk made him weak.

They fucked that night, finishing in bed the fight that Trip had interrupted in the training room. Malcolm found himself thinking, bruised and sated, that it had never been that good with Trip. Hayes was asleep, an arm flung over Malcolm’s stomach, and in sleep he looked harmless. He knew that Hayes would leave in the early hours, doing his best not to wake Malcolm up. The bed would be cold and smell of him when he awoke. Malcolm wished he stayed.

 

* * *

 

Trip was not good company. They were having lunch, twenty minutes stolen from double shifts. He was stabbing at his food and he wasn’t talking. Malcolm carefully chewed his salad and tried to figure out what was happening. Finally, Trip spoke, addressing his curry.

‘So how long have you been sleeping with Hayes?’

_Oh._

‘What?’

‘You heard me.’ Meanness did not suit Trip; it grew maliciously, making his eyes harsh and his face cold. He dropped his fork. It clattered against his plate. Several conversations stalled as crewmen looked over at them. Soon enough, they returned to their chitchat and Malcolm responded.

‘I don’t know what you mean.’ The lie felt tough in his mouth, like food he knew he shouldn’t eat. Malcolm swallowed.

‘Do you think I’m stupid, Malcolm? I’m not blind. And anyway, people are talking.’

‘Lots of people say a lot of things.’ Malcolm couldn’t look at Trip. He looked at his food, but he was no longer hungry.

‘But this is true, ain’t it? What are you _thinking_ , Malcolm? Come on, you almost beat each other to a pulp.’

‘At least I’m not sleeping with a superior,’ Malcolm murmured. He was talking about Trip.

‘It’s not like that.’ He was talking about T’Pol.

‘I don’t see why you’d care anyway.’

Trip sighed.

‘You’re my friend.’

‘Friend,’ Malcolm repeated. That’s what Trip had said when he ended it: _I think it’s better if we’re friends. We were such good at being friends. I need a friend right now_.

‘Yes. Friend.’ Trip sighed. He covered his mouth with his hand and exhaled hard. ‘I just – I’m – whatever.’

‘Are you jealous?’

‘No!’ The reply was far too quick. He leaned forward, speaking in hushed tones to keep their conversation private in such a private place. ‘I’m – I think we made the right decision, ending it. I just, I just didn’t expect you to – to –’

‘Find someone else?’ Malcolm supplied when it became clear that Trip was not going to finish the sentence himself. He decided not to argue with that he had said that _they_ had made the decision. Trip looked away and raked a hand through his hair before replying. His hair fell into his face and he was very beautiful, but Malcolm felt nothing.

‘I guess. I know, I know, it’s selfish. It’s just – when life is an absolute bitch, it’s hard to remember that other people are people and have their own lives. What’s that word?’

‘Solipsism.’

‘That’s the one.’ Trip picked up his fork and poked at his food. ‘I thought you didn’t like him, and then… You’re a risk taker, Malcolm, and if I know anything about the MACOs, they like to be where the action is. I just don’t want you to be hurt. I like you too much.’

Malcolm didn’t know what to say to that. He could argue, but the fight had gone out of him.

‘I’m careful,’ he promised, and Trip smiled, even though they both knew that Malcolm Reed was anything but careful. Trip reached over the table and squeezed his hand. They hadn’t touched since Earth, and Malcolm held his breath, waiting for his heart to ache. It didn’t.

 

* * *

 

Malcolm hesitated before he pressed the call button on the door. The PADD felt heavy in his hands, his palms wet with sweat. Hayes opened the doors, dressed in fresh training gear. Was this what he considered off-duty clothes?

‘Lieutenant. What can I do for you?’ Hayes sounded as detached and uninterested as always.

‘I have a couple of weapons upgrades I’d like for you to have a look at,’ Malcolm said and handed over the PADD.

Hayes took them and nodded at someone behind Malcolm. ‘Corporal.’

‘Major. Lieutenant.’ Malcolm turned to see one of the MACO corporals walk down the corridor, glancing back at them.

‘Would you like to come in?’ Hayes stepped aside. He waited against the wall as Malcolm entered, studying the data until the door was closed, then looked up, a wry almost-smile on his face. ‘This is blank, sir.’

Malcolm licked his lips. Hayes was watching him, waiting for an answer.

‘I wanted to see you.’ He swallowed. ‘I’m sorry. I’m interrupting.’

‘No, you’re not. I was just reading.’

‘What were you reading?’ Malcolm scanned Hayes’ room – clean, clinical. No old books. There was a PADD on his neatly made bed.

Hayes laughed, a low chuckle.

‘Bond. _The Spy Who Loved Me_.’ He grimaced. ‘It’s not good.’

Malcolm laughed, too.

‘That’s the _worst_ one. What were you thinking?’

Hayes moved and sat on his bed, legs crossed.

‘The film was good.’

‘It’s not even the same _plot_!’

‘Maybe I’ll have you recommend me a better one, then.’ Hayes was turning the reading PADD in his hands, twisting and turning it. ‘Why did you want to see me?’

Malcolm hesitated. This was stupid.

‘Nothing. I don’t know.’ He sat down at the bottom of Hayes’s bed, close enough to touch him, but not touching. He swallowed again. ‘Trip knows,’ he said at last.

‘Oh?’ What was that supposed to mean? Malcolm still couldn’t read him. He looked inquisitive and vaguely amused. Was he mocking him?

‘I don’t think he approves.’ Malcolm paused. ‘He seems to think you’re a bad influence. Or maybe I’m a bad influence.’

‘Do you agree?’ Hayes seemed calm, but Malcolm could sense an edge to the question. He asked the question as though he wasn’t interested in the answer. Malcolm understood he was interested. ‘Am I a bad influence? And why do you care what he thinks? Do you still care?’

‘I don’t think I do.’ Malcolm was resting his chin on his knees, making a distinct effort not to look at Hayes. He felt his eyes on him, focused and calm. He didn’t know when his feelings had changed. When had he stopped feeling that heavy weight in his chest every time he saw Trip? Malcolm felt the flutters in his stomach. No, not flutters for Trip. When had this tryst of convenience turned into – what? Not love, no, nothing as bad as all that. But affection, definitely. A hesitant affection that somehow developed over the last few weeks in this desert of space. He looked over at Hayes, meeting his eye. Did he know? Did he feel the same?

‘We’re reaching the sphere tomorrow. You should rest.’ A month ago, Malcolm would have taken this as an insult, an insinuation that he wasn’t really good enough to do his job. But he realised that that’s not what Hayes meant. He meant what he said, and nothing but.

‘I’ll leave in a little bit,’ he promised. ‘Don’t mind me – read your book.’

Hayes hesitated before he opened the file on the PADD and started reading. They  had been sitting in silence for several minutes, with Malcolm staring out into nothing and Hayes glancing up at him every other sentence. Hayes cleared his throat and began to read aloud. He had a good reading voice, strong and confident. He didn’t do voices, letting each character speak in his flat American accent. He didn’t protest when Malcolm moved up the bed and lay down, head in his lap. Hayes continued to read as he stroked Malcolm’s head, his rough fingers gently weaving through his hair.

‘You know this won’t end well,’ Hayes said as he finished a chapter, putting the PADD down. Malcolm’s eyes were still closed, and he nodded against his fingers. ‘We’re on the front line. Leading the charge. We might well not make it out. Not both of us. And if we do – I’ll be transferred. I won’t stay on _Enterprise_.’

‘Starfleet has suggested a permanent MACO complement,’ Malcolm replied. ‘They sent the captain the request last week.’ He was surprised Archer hadn’t told Hayes.

‘I know,’ Hayes said. ‘But I won’t be part of that complement. They’ll be your men. General Casey needs me elsewhere.’

Malcolm didn’t know what to say.

‘Where will you be going?’ He reached up his hand and caught Hayes’, lacing their fingers together. He leaned his head against their hands and allowed himself to brush his lips against Hayes’ knuckles.

‘I don’t know. Casey contacted me this afternoon. They don’t want to assign me elsewhere until they know we’ve got this in the bag. But I won’t stay here. Malcolm.’ Hayes said his name as an afterthought. He had only said it a few times, and every time it had been disorienting, driving home to Malcolm how strange a situation he had put himself in. This time it didn’t feel strange. This time, it felt perfect.

‘Do you want me to leave?’ By which he meant: _do you want this to end?_

Silence.

‘I want you to spend the night.’ By which he meant: _no_.

Malcolm sat up, facing Hayes, only letting go of his hand for a moment before he grasped it again. Hayes moved his thumb in a circular pattern over Malcolm’s skin, and his eyes were expectant.

‘I’d like that,’ Malcolm said.

Maybe Hayes was right, and maybe this wouldn’t end well. But maybe it would. Malcolm had never been an optimist, but with Hayes’ sleeping breath against the back of his neck, he felt hopeful.

They’d make it through.


End file.
